Miss Range...with a lead pipe...in the kitchen

Freshman year in the USC dorms, Friday the 13th of October. The sink in our kitchenette clogs, someone turns on the disposal, and a cloud of dark black oily liquid gurgles up from the drain, like squid ink. We were a bunch of 18 year old girls who, while quite capable in many respects, were not really experience plumbers, but we did manage to bucket out the black water and dump it in one of the two communal showers (I know, gross.) As we sloshed from the kitchenette to the showers, we realized that it was not only black and oily, but had a putrid, pungent smell not unlike rancid tofu. It was past 5, when the maintenence guys had already gone home for the weekend, and there we were in our dorm, an unknown substance gurgling up in spurts from the drain in a spring of glossy ooze. It gurgled to a slow halt as we kept our eye on it, and we slept in peace that night, from what I recall. The next day, a USC football game, I was alone in the dorm studying at the table in the common area when I heard a splash! and looked up to see a sheet of water spilling over the sink's edge into a lovely muddy puddle on the floor. I lept up, tied a bandana around my hair, and retrieved our bucket. It stopped of its own accord after a few hauls back to the common shower area. The next Monday, a man came and knocked a hole in our bathroom to fix the pipes. I still have no idea what the black ooze was.

---

Yesterday I came into my apartment after Bible Study, dumped my purse on the bed and went to the kitchen for a drink. There was about an inch of water standing in my sink. The faucet has had a steady drip for a while, but it had never clogged before, not like this. I looked underneath. The seams of the pipe were dripping. I sponged out the water in the sink and dumped it down another drain. We tightened and loosened the seams, and the water just kept rushing out--the sink water level never changed. The Manly Man and the handyman came determined that this was not a problem with my drain, but with the pipe system in general: my first floor apartment was the lucky recipient of waste water that couldn't drain properly because of a clog somewhere else in the system. Turns out that the apartment next to mine experienced the same problem. In other words, the water that was threatening to flood my kitchen was not my water. It was OTHER PEOPLE'S WASTE WATER just looking for a way out. Beautiful.

---

One day soon after I returned from Egypt last October, I was standing at the sink doing my dishes and minding my own business when I looked down to see that I had a fat, hairy visitor: one of Dupont's resident rodents had moved in while I was away. (S)he was quite at home on my yellow floor, and looked startled when she realized that she was not the only tenant in this studio. She bolted behind the oven. I bolted to the phone to call my landlord. I then moved to a friend's apartment because NO WAY WAS I SLEEPING IN THE SAME APARTMENT AS A BIG FILTHY RAT, EW, WHAT IF HE CRAWLED INTO MY BED OR SOMETHING, EW EW EW GROSS.

After a few days tempting her with peanut butter on unset rat traps, to lull her into a false sense of security, we set the traps. The next evening, a Friday, I opened the door to see...a bleeding rat. In my kitchen. I closed the door without moving an inch, went to the front desk and left a note saying something to the tune of, "There is a rat who may or may not be dying/dead in my apartment. If the maintenance guy is around, could you please have him look after that?"

The next day, Saturday at 11 AM, I came back to a laughing front desk clerk who thought that I probably was exagerrating and the rat was probably dead, and was I even sure that it was a rat? Mice can get pretty big, you know. We opened the door, and there she was, with her beady bright eyes, nursing her injured paw in my foyer. The desk clerk thought this was hysterical and screeched with a mixture of disgust and delight. We couldn't trap her with a box and broom, and only succeeded in scaring her to seek refuge under my chair (EW EW EW) so that night we set more traps. The next afternoon, I was greeted with a truly dead rat. The landlord took her away so I didn't have to witness the carnage. There had been, he told me, construction in the basement, leaving a small hole(s) through which the rat had probably discovered my cozy, warm, person-less apartment.

I spent the next 24 hours bathing my studio in bleach and vinegar. I think I dry cleaned every item of clothing I owned. My dishes had never been so clean, my wood floors had neevr gleamed with such precision. I cursed the cumbersome 1950s oven that was stuck to the wall, preventing me from cleaning between the wall and the cupboards.

The moral of the story: Never buy a first floor condo. Let someone else deal with the ooze and the pipes and the rats.

No One's Ever Thrown Me A Surprise Party Before

I turned 21 in Amman, Jordan, on a Tuesday. The store that supposedly sold the "best milkshakes in the Middle East" didn't have any milkshakes, so we went to a tea shop in the middle of downtown Amman with a bunch of people I had just met three weeks ago. There was not much fanfare, but the tea was decent. We went home early to study for our history midterm the next day. In the following week, I came down with a case of Hepatitis A. It was not a miserable birthday, but it could have been better.

I turned 18 at a Buca di Beppo's somewhere in LA with people I had just met in my dorm, the first year of college. It was nice to get out of the dorm, but I'm not sure we had much to say to each other. There was a lot of, "So! This is pretty good food." "Yeah, I've never been here before." "Yeah!" "Yeah." Not miserable, but not really fantastic.

I turned 24 on a rainy day in Adams Morgan, and most of the people I had invited to dinner were sick/out of town/lazy/stuck in Alexandria/whatever. The people I ended up sharing it with were wonderful, but there were only four of us and a lot of mojitos. Again, not miserable, but I can't say it wasn't lame, either.

Not to say I haven't had some good, fun birthday parties: I turned 23 at Mama Ayesha's after living in DC 9 months and accumulating enough friends to make it a true birthday quorum. We ate Arabic food. We went salsa dancing afterwards. Some of us drank mojitos. I met Anthony, who now has surpassed me in Arabic skills and remains one of my dearest friends, despite the difficulty of the weekly Arabic quizzes he administers (Well, I had met him before, but not really.)

And I kind of assumed that birthday parties diminish in quality as one ages: nothing will ever compare to the fantastic day that was my 6th birthday party. Not only did we have a TEDDY BEAR PICNIC, but we also wore PARTY DRESSES and FANCY HATS to said teddy bear picnic. It was pretty much 6-year-old heaven.

So I came back from Geneva on the 13th of September, after exchanging a few e-mails with Lisa and Anthony, "We should do something for your birthday! But I'm busy. How about Sunday?" I had a vague impression that something would be happening Sunday despite the fact that my birthday was on Saturday, which as everyone knows, is the PRIMO BIRTHDAY PARTY day, especially if it is actually the day OF your birthday. I half-heartedly attempted to arrange something, but people were vague/busy/disinterested, so I gave up and decided that going to a war protest would have to suffice as a birthday celebration.

I went to the protest, my first protest ever. I ... am not a protesting person, but it was a liberating experience, and Sasan bought me a nice bumper sticker, so ... that was nice. The weather was beautiful. The crowd was energetic.

On the way back from the protest, Sasan insisted we go to Trader Joe's: "You SAID we could go to Trader Joe's!" ...what's the big deal? I thought. But fine, sure, we'll go to Trader Joe's. He bought nuts and chips and LOTS OF SALSA. Because he really likes salsa, and he goes through it so fast (?) Ok, fine. And I believe I made a comment on the way home about how I Don't Want To Have A Lame Birthday wah wah wah. I believe I also thought, Wouldn't it be nice if someday someone threw me a Fun and Exciting Birthday Party, with friends and family and food and if it were a surprise, wouldn't that be even better! Maybe next year.

We went back to my apartment to drop off the groceries, and I still had the vague idea that we'd be going to Busboys and Poets later on for a Brazilian carnival thing. Sasan declared that it was a Persian tradition to clean up the house/apartment on one's birthday. "It's like starting the new year off, you have to clean your house. However your house is on the first day of the year, that's how it will stay the rest of the year and besides, it's not NICE to be in a messy apartment." And I protested. I don't want to clean my apartment I want to go do something who wants to spend their birthday cleaning the apartment that's so lame. But we cleaned despite my protests. And then he declared another Persian tradition: To take pictures on your birthday. We have to take pictures every year so that we remember the years blah blah blah. He says this to me, in my undone hair and ratty T-shirt. So of course, I go to change. I take my time. We don't have to be at Busboys til 10. It's like, 8:30. Sasan hurries me along: But no we have to go now because we have to walk to Busboys afterwards and we need plenty of time let'sgolet'sgolet'sgo.

He runs me to Dupont, where we took precisely one picture. I was annoyed: WHY ARE YOU WALKING SO FAST. GEEZ. He slowed down. "Ok, I should buy you dessert, it's your birthday. Where do you want to get dessert?" We were walking down 19th street. "Fondue!" I said as we walked by the Melting Pot. I love fondue. "Ok." He steered me in, and I protested, again. "Um, isn't this expensive? We can't just go in an order dessert fondue...um...Are you sure? We can just get ice cream." "Let's just SEE." He said.

So we walked through the dining tables to the corner. I was looking at the various fondue selections, the steaming pots on every table, the couples cuddling and feeding each other strawberries dipped in chocolate. Then I looked up and the first thing I saw were balloons...then I heard a crowd, "SURPRISE!" ...then I recognized Lisa, in the middle of the crowd, and I realized that I was The Surprised One. I was the surprised one.

And then everything made sense. Lisa didn't have a prior engagement. It was a foil to prevent me from planning anything on Saturday night. Sasan didn't need 5 jars of salsa. It was for the party afterwards, when we migrated from the fondue to my apartment. Cleaning one's house on one's birthday is a bogus Persian tradition (although cleaning on the new year is not.) And the picture ploy was just to get me to go willingly to Dupont. He had planned and executed it all, the whole program, designed to the last detail (he even e-mailed my parents to warn them in case they had conflicting plans with me.) He predicted my reaction to people's inquiries about what I'm doing for my birthday, knowing that I shouldn't think that everyone's forgotten, but I should think that it's really not that big a deal to them. He anticipated my reaction to friends', "What are you doing to celebrate?" verbatim: "I guess we're doing something Sunday night...?" He combed through mass e-mails to find friends' contact information.

Sasan gets the gold star.

Carolina brought a decadent chocolate cake, Melissa brought balloons. Anthony brought paper plates. My cousin was there, Kutaiba was there. They had all arrived on time (we had not: I took too long figuring out what to wear.) and were waiting to celebrate MY BIRTHDAY. Because they are the best friends ever.

Carolina, Leila, Azucena, Katie, Melissa, Me, Sasan (Project Manager Extraordinaire), Lisa, Christina. The photographers: Jason, Anthony

Captain Obvious

Here is an actual question asked to Bill Clinton by Tim Russert on Meet the Press.

MR. RUSSERT: Do you ever think of the historical significance, a husband and a wife both being president of the United States?

...

Bill Clinton has probably never ever thought of that, no.

I think Clinton's response should have been, "...Whoa! You know, you're right! Dude. That's deep."

And the Living is Easy

It is nice to think, "Maybe I'll go out tonight," and then stand up, pick up your purse, and go, ignoring the coats hanging in the foyer, the boots stashed under the bed 'til winter, and the scarves that are neatly folded on the upper shelf. It's nice to meander down through the farmer's market, run your eyes over the fresh tomatoes, and then continue meandering to a terrace, order some coffee, and drink it outside without adjusting your sweater to protect against the intrusion of a cool breeze.

I appreciate the change of the seasons, the ripple of cold in the air as autumn approaches, the urge around the end of September to wear something warm and camel colored and maybe bring a thick red scarf just in case, the sudden appearance of pumpkins in the grocery stores. I appreciate the cold winter with the long warm coats and the fresh snow and the hot drinks. I appreciate the spring when the greens are tender and the flowers are innocent and nothing seems to have ever heard of age or death. But summer is my favorite. Summer is when I feel that I could, if I set my mind to it, conquer the world, when art is most meaningful and friendships more invigorating. There is something about the heat and the sweat and the constant temperature, the sheer bliss of having a cold drink in the hot sun, the ability to sit out all night on your roof and never fear the cold, that makes me feel immortal and capable. Summer is when I Plan My Life, consider things that I'm too miserable to consider in the winter when it's cold and I'm preoccupied with thawing my fingers. Summer is when I get up the energy to call old friends and invite people over and drop in uninvited and buy plane tickets in anticipation of a lazy August and peruse grad school catalogues.

I don't know if it's the fact that the seasons here do change and I have therefore learned to appreciate summer all the more, or if I just really like warmth. I think it's the latter: I have only visited Florida once, and it was August, and what I found alarming, in a pure rush of realization, was that the water and the air were not only the same color, but the same temperature. You could wade and wade and hardly tell where the water ended and the air began, only sometimes by looking down through the ripples and seeing your toes in the sand, broken by soft, soft waves and tiny, tiny grains. The California waves are cold and harsh and loud, but here, there were no waves, there were no crashes or rocks. Just water and sand and water, turquoise and aqua, warm as a baby's bathtub, smooth and wet. It was beautiful and inspiring and made my heart beat faster.

Maybe if I lived by the Florida beach and saw it every day, or under a palm tree in St. Martin, or by a Tahitian lagoon, the refreshing feeling of warmth and summer would wear off and it would be same, same, uninspiring and boring. Maybe. Maybe I would miss the metallic smell of winter and the gradual thaw of spring.

For now, I'll stick with the four seasons and enjoy the trickles of sweat that begin creeping down my back as soon as I step out of my air conditioned office, the sticky smell of skin and sun, and the feeling of life, life! that surges through my fingers when I step out into the heat.

Urban

The District's DMV has a deservedly, erm, disappointing reputation. My last encounter with them brought me to tears. So when I got the notice in the mail that my registration was about to expire and I should plan another trip to the DMV by June 26th, I promptly put the letter in my (growing) pile of To-Do and made a conscious decision to procrastinate. I accomplished this goal very well and finally got around to doing something about that letter on June 27th.

Last year, I came out to my car on a crisp spring morning to discover that my driver's side mirror had been shattered. The mechanics still worked, there was just no mirror. I called a few Toyota dealers and auto parts stores. The estimate was $500-$600. "For a mirror?" "Yup, 'fraid so. You gotta replace the whole piece, can't just buy a mirror." Yeah.

So I bought a hand held mirror for $2.99 and ripped the plastic casing off. Then I bought a glass cutter and cut a piece of glass the shape and size of the mirror casing. Then I Krazy glued it to the frame. Heckuva lot cheaper than $500. It did its job for a good year, but I knew it wouldn't pass the DC inspection.

Knowing that the inspection was coming up "sorta soon," (I was deliberately trying to avoid thinking about my debt to the DMV) I called the Toyota dealership again on Saturday. "Yup, we can get that. Nope, it's not $500. It's easy to install. The total will be $150." $150 is still not that great, but it's better than $500. So I picked up the part on Tuesday night. The Toyota lady seemed confused that I didn't want it installed, but she shrugged, "Ok, good luck." I left with my new mirror.

Wednesday morning the 27th, I drove to the Vehicle inspection site. I parked in a nearby gas station with my wrench and my new mirror, ready to replace it and removed the black plastic casing to reveal three easy screws. The morning was just heating up, the smog was beginning to feel thick, and the highway was beginning to give off waves of heat. At that moment a short, unkempt middle-aged African-American man came over and offered his assistance: "I fix my daughter's car like this, it is pretty easy..." He clearly knew what he was doing. I held the screws while his short fingers removed the offending mirror and found the plug for the motor. It took about 10 minutes and there I was with a new mirror. I'm sure it would have taken me longer, although I would have figured it out eventually. "Thank you!"I smiled, truly grateful for his time-saving help. His eyes were sad, "Could you help me out a little?" Of course I could. I gave him a ten. He tottered off to the gas station for a cup of coffee and a pack of cigarettes. I drove to the DMV and was first in line for inspection.

The inspector failed me and my newly mirrored Toyota for non-operational headlights. I tried to smile prettily and told him I would get it done RIGHT AWAY, but rules are rules. "Where can I get a headlight?" I asked. "Try Dura, up on Rhode Island Avenue."

I called Dura, "I need a headlight for a 2001 Corolla. Can I get one there?"

"Yes ma'am, we have a lot of those, and they're only $9.95."

"Can I put it in myself? Is it pretty easy?"

"Shouldn't be too hard, no, ma'am."

"Great! See you soon."

I drove up 395 and was on Rhode Island Ave in no time. The road and sidewalks widened and the houses began to look disheveled. The boring but approachable strip malls disappeared and the shops looked more...local. I passed churches on big lots, beauty parlors, and local donut shops. There it was, 2066. I parked and hobbled in in my white suit and fat walking boot. I must have looked conspicuous: Maurice behind the counter looked up kindly and said, "Are you here for the headlight?" He looked a lot younger than his voice sounded, and he held up the small package. I was amused by this and smiled, got out my credit card, and said, "Yup, that's me!" Maurice gave me tips on how to install the light and told me to "be sure and stay cool out there today!" I haven't gotten service that friendly in a long time.

I pulled my car into the shade and opened the hood. I poked around a while and decided that I had no idea how to install a headlight. So I walked across the parking lot into an AutoZone and asked if anyone there knew about Toyota headlights. The woman was clean and professional. "No, but you see that guy over there under the tree? His name's Joe. He'll help you out." I followed her finger through the heat waves undulating over the parking lot to see a tall, lean, black, black man sitting under the tree with a tall, large white man wearing a black t-shirt. They looked quite at home in their lawn chairs, not comfortable, but not uncomfortable. Just there, sitting still, in the heat. Something about the picture made me feel truly urban and summery, these two unlikely shapes reflecting through the heat, drinking cold beer under a sparse tree growing up and out in a city parking lot. The air smelled hot and urban, the sky was clear, soft blue with a brown haze hovering over the horizon. I think they had seen me looking forlorn in my white straight skirt and broken foot poking around cluelessly under the hood in the AutoZone parking lot in the hot sun. As I left the store, the tall black man casually approached me, his wiry muscles glistening in the hot sun. His eyes were deep and black above his chiseled cheekbones. He squinted at me.

"Whatchyou need help wit?"

"I need to replace a headlight and I've never done that before."

His expression didn't change, and he lead me back to my car. "I been working on cars for 42 years." Pause as he fingered the headlight under the hood. "It's the only thing I can DO, you know what I'm saying?" I nodded and expressed my respect for a good mechanic. "It's how I make my survival, hear me?" I nodded again as I squinted at him through my windshield. The headlights turned on and he closed the hood. "Now, you gonna pay for that sweetheart..." "Of course. Let me just go and get some cash." I asked the woman inside, "So Joe, how much to people usually tip him?" "Oh, five, ten." "Great, can I have these batteries and cash back for Joe?" "No problem." She was efficient and fast and friendly. I placed the ten in Joe's long, bony, ebony fingers as I left and thanked him again for his help. His expression didn't change, but he nodded, turned, and sauntered back to the lawn chair under the tree.

I passed the inspection and re-registered my car, easy as pie. Got to work before lunch. Breathed a few prayers of gratitude for the two men who helped me that morning. Wondered what the rest of their lives are like. Decided to return to Dura and AutoZone if ever I need another headlight.